


Standby

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank millennials all over bedtime.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	Standby

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Connor doesn’t need a tracker to know exactly what Hank’s up to at any given time, because Hank’s incredibly vocal, loud enough that if Connor were actually trying to sleep, he wouldn’t be able to. Fortunately, he doesn’t require silence to power down. He doesn’t require a dark apartment free of flashing lights. He doesn’t technically require a warm, thick man spooning him from behind, but he likes it. He finds himself lying across Hank’s bed, dressed down to socks and one of Hank’s old hoodies, eyes wide open, waiting for those big cuddly arms to come and envelop him. But he’s been waiting for over an hour.

His internal clock hits one hour and ten minutes, and Connor decides that’s quite enough. They both have work tomorrow, and while Connor will function just fine without going into sleep mode, Hank won’t. Taking care of Hank has become his new primary function, even if he won’t say that aloud. It would only leave Hank blushing and spluttering and insisting that he’s a ‘grown-ass man’ who can take care of himself. Except he obviously can’t. 

Pushing out of bed, Connor strolls through the bedroom door, out into the hall, gingerly stepping over Sumo’s bulky body strewn over the carpet. Sumo doesn’t seem bothered by the constant screams and strobe lights, but the neighbours might be. Connor comes to the very edge of the couch and resists the urge to shut the television off via remote access. The bright glow lights up Hank’s face, his back cast in shadows from the otherwise dark living room. Hank doesn’t even look up at him, so intent on the game, bent over the coffee table with both hands rapidly mashing the controller. Connor says over the droning background music, “That’s enough, Lieutenant.”

Hank snorts and keeps playing. Then he abruptly stops and swears, and Connor doesn’t have to turn around to know he’s died. Fictitiously speaking. His fingers dig into the plastic controller like there are actual real-world consequences for his continued virtual failure, when in reality, the game has no bearing on his life, unlike his lonely boyfriend. 

When Connor doesn’t move, Hank mutters, “Just let me finish the level. I’ll be right there.”

“That is exactly what you said the last time I came in.”

Hank rolls his eyes, only to swear and swerve again, jerking his whole body to the right despite being on an ancient console that has no motion controls. “Well, I’m on the same damn level, okay? This stupid rubber-band AI is killing me—FUCK!” There’s a split second where Connor thinks Hank’s actually going to throw his controller, but then he just breathes deep through his nose and starts his obsessive button flailing all over again.

The AI isn’t the problem. The game Hank’s playing is as ancient as the console, but even back then Connor’s positive that video games weren’t released to the public without sufficient testing. It’s _possible_ to beat the level, Hank simply isn’t skilled enough.

So Connor does the only logical thing—he takes a seat next to Hank, swiftly plucks the controller right out of Hank’s hands, does a triple axel off the giant mushroom, wall flips off the nearest seashell, spin jumps through the one-way floating cloud platform and touches the invisible finish line before the NPC opponent has even finished climbing the palm tree. It took less than two seconds to download a walkthrough for the mission, less than five to execute it. As the polygonal confetti falls, Connor passes the controller back to Hank. 

Hank remains in a state of shock for half a minute, then splutters, “What the _fuck_ , Connor!”

Connor chirps, “You’re welcome,” and pecks Hank’s prickly cheek. His beard’s growing too long again—Connor makes a mental note to shave him in the morning. Then Connor’s climbing off the couch, turning off both the console and television remotely, and looking expectantly down at his big spoon. 

Hank grumbles through a glare, “I wanted to do it myself.”

Connor’s been deviant long enough to string together a sufficient ‘burn’. “If you’d accepted defeat sooner, you could’ve done me instead.”

Hank opens and closes his mouth like the fish Connor’s been pestering him to buy. Hank will give in to that eventually, because he always does. Connor calculates that he’s won this argument too and turns on his heel, marching back to the bedroom.

He’s barely gotten under the covers before Hank sidles in behind him, still noticeably tense but blissfully warm against Connor’s back. Given how long Hank took, he should probably go brush his teeth again, but Connor figures he can deactivate his oral sensors if it becomes a problem. Besides, they’ve waited too late to fool around, which kissing always leads to. Hank requires at least six hours of sleep to function properly. Connor would prefer him to have eight. With all the extra case analysis and planning for Hank’s day and getting up early to make Hank a nutritious breakfast, Connor usually clocks in at four hours.

Sumo’s out cold for eighteen, but given that Connor’s snuggled up in Hank’s loving embrace, he still thinks he’s the lucky one.


End file.
